When I was a young boy, I used to get confused about my name. Sometimes my dad would call me by my given name, but at other times…like when he was angry…he would loudly pronounce my name to be “SONFA B*TCH.” Along with the fact that my dad was deaf, he had a booming voice (more like a sonic booming voice) that would freeze everything in his wake, especially my brothers and I.
Now before you get to thinking that my dad was one of those swearing dads, I would have to inform you that the only swearing I really heard was when he used the affectionate “SONFA B*TCH.” Also, in hindsight, it was usually deserved. It was difficult to get my dad angry, but once achieved, it had a profound effect.
A good example of this was usually on a Saturday when All-Star Wrestling was on TV. We would watch our favorites like The Crusher, the Vashon Brothers, Vic Gagne, and so on. We knew it was staged, but that didn’t matter. It was fun. It was exhilarating. Unfortunately, it was also contagious. There was no way three boys could watch something like this and not get wound up. During warmer weather, we would go outside and let the energy go, but in bad weather…
One Saturday night after watching wrestling, we were specially wound up. The Crusher and The Bruiser had teamed up and put a whooping on the Vashon Brothers. It was brutal! It was also imperative that we re-enact the entire match…in the house…in the bedroom…with the bunk beds. We had no choice! That’s what boys do!
Okay, I know what some of you are thinking. “But Mr. Dazeodrew? We thought you said your dad was deaf?” True statement, I did. He might not have been able to hear us wrestling, but he could feel it. Even deaf people feel earthquakes. In fact, with a loss of hearing, I believe the sense of feeling is heightened…at least it was with my parents. To get their attention, we would either wave our hands or stomp on the floor.
Anyway, my brothers were older than me by a few years, but if you had read an earlier blog of mine, you would remember that I was born at 11 pounds. At this time of my life, I was nearly as wide as I was tall. I was also as wide as both my brothers put together, giving me a distinct advantage when I would fly off the turnbuckles…um, the bunk beds. I was like a 50-pound flying sack of potatoes landing on whichever victim I chose. I usually would try to get them both in one shot, but my oldest brother was wise enough to roll away whenever he knew what I intended. This wasn’t difficult to figure out because like a 50-pound sack of potatoes, it took me a while to climb up onto the bunk beds. Also, I think I was only four years old or so. I was not very coordinated, nimble, or graceful by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, if you need to imagine, imagine a whale being thrown from an airplane only to land on a skinny little kid. Better?
Anyway, I was in the middle of one of these landings when the bedroom door opened. My oldest brother had the best view, since he was not my intended victim, and saw it like this. I launched from the top bunk just as the door opened…it was my dad. As my dad began the affectionate nickname, “SONFA…”, my head began to turn to look at him while flying in mid-air…”B*TCH!” and I landed. I landed squarely, or roundly in my case, on my second oldest brother. I landed hard enough that the air exited his lungs in a sharp, “AWAHHAWUMPH.” He had no air left to cry…just facial expressions which he chose to employ for my dad’s benefit at just that moment. Looking at my dad, we weren’t sure if he was going to laugh, yell, cry, or walk away. He just stared. Then he shook his head and walked away.
I definitely won that match. Of course, after the traditional tattling to my mom by my squished brother, the thrill of victory waned with my punishment.
As the years went by, I slimmed down to a pathetic skinny little boy, but the memory of that victory will always stay in my mind…kind of…in a second-hand way. You see, I really don’t remember the event. It was my oldest brother who told me about it years later. Still, I enjoyed hearing about it.